when night comes to town,

and the wolves howl at noon,

you must surely hear the sobbing

of weeping bullets,

and the invasion of danger

upon your life

the clock turns backwards,

and days of the sackcloth are rewinded

by these black signs,

it's the cobra of misery,

the fangs of poverty,

that seeks to bite you with

the venom of torment, this very moment

and your mind,

is like a mercedes benz,

raptured by a fatal accident,

you can't think straight,

you children's school fees have awaken

with a financial haunt,

christmas is near,

you have to fund your late father's funeral,

what are you gonna do?

SUCH, are the crosses of maturity.

                          By Kakraba Afful